CHAPTER 5
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the position, concluded Commodore Hansteen. We're in no immediate danger, and I haven't the slightest doubt that we'll be located quite soon. Until then, we have to make the best of it.
He paused, and swiftly scanned the upturned, anxious faces. Already he had noted the possible trouble spots that little man with the nervous tic, the acidulous, prune-faced lady who kept twisting her handkerchief in knots. Maybe they'd neutralize each other, if he could get them to sit together.
Captain Harris and I he's the boss; I'm only acting as his adviser have worked out a plan of action. Food will be simple and rationed, but will be adequate, especially since you won't be engaged in any physical activity. We would like to ask some of the ladies to help Miss Wilkins; she'll have a lot of extra work, and could do with some assistance. Our biggest problem, frankly, is going to be boredom. By the way, did anyone bring any books?
There was much scrabbling in handbags and baskets. The total haul consisted of assorted lunar guides, including six copies of the official handbook; a current best seller, The Orange and the Apple, whose unlikely theme was a romance between Nell Gwyn and Sir Isaac Newton; a Harvard Press edition of Shane, with scholarly annotations by a professor of English; an introduction to the logical positivism of Auguste Comte; and a week-old copy of the New York Times, Earth edition. It was not much of a library, but with careful rationing it would help to pass the hours that lay ahead.
I think we'll form an Entertainment Committee to decide how we'll use this material, though I don't know how it will deal with Monsieur Comte. Meanwhile, now that you know what our situation is, are there any questions, any points you'd like Captain Harris or myself to explain in more detail?
There's one thing I'd like to ask, sir, said the English voice that had made the complimentary remarks about the tea. Is there the slightest chance that we'll float up? I mean, if this stuff is like water, won't we bob up sooner or later, like a cork?
That floored the Commodore completely. He looked at Pat and said wryly: That's one for you, Mr. Harris. Any comment?
Pat shook his head.
I'm afraid it won't work. True, the air inside the hull must make us very buoyant, but the resistance of this dust is enormous. We may float up eventually in a few thousand years.
The Englishman, it seemed, was not easily discouraged.
I noticed that there was a space suit in the air lock. Could anyone get out and swim up? Then the search party will know where we are.
Pat stirred uneasily. He was the only one qualified to wear that suit, which was purely for emergency use.
I'm almost sure it's impossible, he answered. I doubt if a man could move against the resistance and of course he'd be absolutely blind. How would he know which way was up? And how would you close the outer door after him? Once the dust had flooded in, there would be no way of clearing it. You certainly couldn't pump it out again.
He could have said more, but decided to leave it at that. They might yet be reduced to such desperate expedients, if there was no sign of rescue by the end of the week. But that was a nightmare that must be kept firmly at the back of his mind, for to dwell too long upon it could only sap his courage.
If there are no more questions, said Hansteen, I suggest we introduce ourselves. Whether we like it or not, we have to get used to each other's company, so let's find out who we are. I'll go round the room, and perhaps each of you in turn will give your name, occupation, and home town. You first, sir.
Robert Bryan, civil engineer, retired, Kingston, Jamaica.
Irving Schuster, attorney at law, Chicago and my wife, Myra.
Nihal Jayawardene, Professor of Zoology, University of Ceylon, Peradeniya.
As the roll call continued, Pat once again found himself grateful for the one piece of luck in this desperate situation. By character, training, and experience, Commodore Hansteen was a born leader of men: already he was beginning to weld this random collection of individuals into a unit, to build up that indefinable esprit de corps that transforms a mob into a team. These things he had learned while his little fleet the first ever to venture beyond the orbit of Neptune, almost three billion miles from the sun had hung poised week upon week in the emptiness between the planets. Pat, who was thirty years younger and had never been away from the Earth-Moon system, felt no resentment at the change of command that had tacitly taken place. It was nice of the Commodore to say that he was still the boss, but he knew better.
Duncan McKenzie, physicist, Mount Stromlo Observatory, Canberra.
Pierre Blanchard, cost accountant, Clavius City, Earthside.
Phyllis Morley, journalist, London.
Karl Johanson, nucleonics engineer, Tsiolkovski Base, Farside.
That was the lot; quite a collection of talent, though not an unusual one, for the people who came to the Moon always had something out of the ordinary even if it was only money. But all the skill and experience now locked up in Selene could not, so it seemed to Pat, do anything to help them in their present situation.
That was not quite true, as Commodore Hansteen was now about to prove. He knew, as well as any man alive, that they would be fighting boredom as well as fear. They had been thrown upon their own resources; in an age of universal entertainment and communications, they had suddenly been cut off from the rest of the human race. Radio, TV, telefax newssheets, movies, telephone all these things now meant no more to them than to the people of the Stone Age. They were like some ancient tribe gathered round the campfire, in a wilderness that held no other men. Even on the Pluto run, thought Commodore Hansteen, they had never been as lonely as this. They had had a fine library and had been well stocked with every possible form of canned entertainment, and they could talk by tight beam to the inner planets whenever they wished. But on Selene, there was not even a pack of cards.
That was an idea. Miss Morley! As a journalist, I imagine you have a notebook?
Why, yes, Commodore.
Fifty-two blank sheets in it still?
I think so.
Then I must ask you to sacrifice them. Please cut them out and mark a pack of cards on them. No need to be artistic as long as they're legible, and the lettering doesn't show through the back.
How are you going to shuffle paper cards? asked somebody.
A good problem for our Entertainment Committee to solve. Anyone who thinks they have talent in this direction?
I used to be on the stage, said Myra Schuster, rather hesitantly. Her husband did not look at all pleased by this revelation, but it delighted the Commodore.
Excellent! Though we're a little cramped for space, I was hoping we might be able to put on a play.
Now Mrs. Schuster looked as unhappy as her husband.
It was rather a long time ago, she said, and I I never did much talking.
There were several chuckles, and even the Commodore had difficulty in keeping a straight face. Looking at Mrs. Schuster, on the wrong side of both fifty years and a hundred kilos, it was a little hard to imagine her as, he suspected, a chorus girl.
Never mind, he said, it's the spirit that counts. Who will help Mrs. Schuster?
I've done some amateur theatricals, said Professor Jayawardene. Mostly Brecht and Ibsen, though.
That final though indicated recognition of the fact that something a little lighter would be appreciated here say, one of the decadent but amusing comedies of the 1980's, which had invaded the airways in such numbers with the collapse of TV censorship.
There were no more volunteers for this job, so the Commodore moved Mrs. Schuster and Professor Jayawardene into adjacent seats and told them to start program-planning. It seemed unlikely that such an ill-assorted pair would produce anything useful, but one never knew. The main thing was to keep everyone busy, either on tasks of their own or co-operating with others.